


drabble dump 012

by highboys (orphan_account)



Series: drabble dumps [12]
Category: Hyouka, Kimi to Boku, Kuroko no Basket
Genre: Domesticity, F/M, M/M, Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 12:18:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/highboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Domestic scenes, from a life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drabble dump 012

**Author's Note:**

> For a couple anons, pandachii, hal-ichi and haatomune.

Fandom: Kuroko no Basket

 

 

 

**( Kagami/Momoi. In which Kagami exhibits his culinary skills. )**

 

 

 

In their first month of cohabitation, Momoi proposes marriage to Kagami. Aomine insists Momoi has bad taste — that, or Kagami must have put _something_ in her food. Kagami only grimaces when Kuroko pipes in that “it’s love, isn’t it?”, but doesn’t negate anything else.

“I bet you knocked her up,” says Aomine, leering, only to double back and look repulsed at the thought of _Momoi_ and _Kagami_ doing _things_ in bed. _Together_.

“Fuck you,” says Kagami, expertly flipping an omelette without even looking at the pan.

“Oh my god,” says Momoi, fluttering her fingers as she swallows a bite of her pancakes. “Oh my god, this is so good, Dai-chan, _you have to try this_.”

Aomine grudgingly steals a slice of the french toast on Kuroko’s plate, and when he pops it into his mouth, his eyes widen and he looks like he’s achieved the state of nirvana previously unknown to man. “Oh fuck,” says Aomine, “Kagami, you have to marry her and let me crash your place everyday.”

“Kagami would make an excellent husband,” says Kuroko.

“Think of all your kids’ birthday parties,” says Aomine, sawing into Momoi’s pancakes. “Think of _New Years_.”

“I’m not inviting you to the wedding,” says Kagami. He turns the fire down, and adds some minced spring onions to the eggs.

“Does this mean you’re saying yes?” Momoi says, gleefully.

Kagami rolls his eyes, but a blush spreads across his cheeks. “Ask me again later.”

 

 

 

**( Kagami/Momoi. In which Kagami holds his firstborn. )**

 

 

 

Hours after screaming herself hoarse and cursing Kagami’s cock to hell and back, Satsuki watches her husband stroke the soft hair atop their firstborn’s head with gentle fingers, the pink bundle in his arms impossibly tiny compared to his bulk.

He’s — singing to her, something that sounds suspiciously like the national anthem. It’s the only song he probably knows by heart, and it makes her smile, despite herself.

“Hey,” she croaks out, through her fatigue.

“Hey,” he says. “Do you want to hold her?”

“No,” says Satsuki. “It’s okay. She’s already asleep. I don’t want to wake her.”

He takes a seat by her bed, close enough so that Satsuki can touch his knee. “Am I forgiven now?”

“Yes,” says Satsuki, “but just so you know, you’re wearing a condom next time.”

“It could be worse,” says Kagami. “You could have married Aomine.”

“Yeah,” says Satsuki. “I could have married anyone but you.”

Kagami smiles at her, incredibly fond. He bends to kiss the baby’s cheek. ”Thank you, then,” he says. “For marrying me.”

 

 

 

**( Kuroko/Takao. In which they go grocery shopping. )**

 

 

 

Takao is in the produce section when Kuroko finds him. Kuroko thinks about sneaking up on him, somewhere between the wine aisle and the gift baskets, except Takao is already waving him over to bring the shopping cart with him.

“Does this look like it will last a week in the vegetable crisper?” Takao asks, holding up an eggplant. “And you were planning on scaring the shit out of me like you did to Kagami last week, weren’t you?”

“No,” says Kuroko, pushing the eggplant away.

“No to the first part, or no to both?” Takao says, throwing a sealed pack of baby carrots into the cart.

“To the first one,” says Kuroko, tilting his head to the side. “And you never get surprised anyway.”

“Don’t worry,” says Takao, curling his fingers around the back of Kuroko’s head to steal a kiss while no one is looking, “I can always see you.”

 

 

 

**( Aomine/Kuroko. In which they can't live by themselves. )**

 

 

 

There are only two things that make living with Aomine worth it: the first, is Momoi. The second, the sex.

Most days it doesn’t pay to inhabit the same space as Aomine. None of them are particularly adept at cooking (“Tetsu, get away from the stove, now.”), and the last time Aomine folded his underwear was when his mother threatened, on pain of death, to come over and ransack his closet. Kuroko’s clothes are all mixed up and rumpled with Aomine’s sweatshirts and jeans, and the hangers are a mishmash of colors left unused, unattended. It’s a sight that not even Momoi braves, especially after the first time she decided to clean out their things and stumbled across a bottle of lubricant (“Oh my god, Dai-chan, _I quit being your friend_.”). She doesn’t ask anymore.

Sometimes Aomine passes the vacuum cleaner over the floor, but he doesn’t do it as meticulously as Momoi does, too lazy to move furniture and to bend lower to clean out whatever is under the bed (“It’s what’s over it that matters, Tetsu, it’s not like you really care about losing your slippers while I’m sucking your dick, right?”). Kuroko suspects that his old phone is somewhere under it, along with a few other dust bunnies and dog fur from whenever Momoi brings along her tiny Chin, the one she named after Kuroko which, ironically, hates Aomine with a passion (“What the fuck is wrong with your _dog_ , Satsuki?” “Tetsuya is an excellent judge of character, what’s wrong with _you_?”).

On their off days, Kuroko wonders why he doesn’t just marry Momoi, if being with Aomine necessitates, by extension, that her presence is always there like the voice of god coaxing Aomine to _live_. Then he remembers that Aomine is very good at shutting Kuroko’s doubts up with his mouth and he has very skilled hands, yes. It’s in the way he pulls Kuroko close to kiss him awake, slow and steady, amidst week-old sheets and sports magazines scattered at the foot of their shared bed, or in how he touches Kuroko’s cheek sometimes and looks at him like he doesn’t know how much they can take or how far they can go before either of them burn out, but he hopes, he hopes.

They’ll last.

 

 

 

Fandom: Kimi to Boku

 

 

 

**( Yuuta/Shun. In which Shun cleans and Yuuta reads. )**

 

 

 

On their days off, Yuuta thumbs through a novel filched from Kaname’s bookshelf. The lightbulb in his room is a little dim, so he gravitates towards the living room where Shun, armed with the vacuum cleaner and a rag, is still cleaning the remnants of yesterday’s drinking party. Shun shoos him away from the sofa, except sometimes Yuuta doesn’t really listen to Shun, so he pulls his feet up and onto the armrest instead.

“You’re just like your brother, sometimes,” says Shun.

“My brother doesn’t really want to kiss you,” says Yuuta, not looking up.

Shun doesn’t really blush — not like when they were teenagers and a little drunk on too many feelings, too much history — but he cracks a smile, at that, and goes back to cleaning bread crumbs out of the carpet.

 

 

 

Fandom: Hyouka

 

 

 

**( Kugayama/Tanabe. In which Tanabe thinks of Kugayama's hands. )**

 

 

 

Kugayama has cold hands.

Tanabe knows this because Kugayama touches him every day, when Kugayama passes him his glasses, or when he rubs at the nape of Tanabe’s neck, soothing. When Kugayama makes hot chocolate for both of them and hands him his mug, the coolness of his fingers makes Tanabe shiver.

What was that saying again? People with cold hands, Tanabe thinks, they have warm hearts, or something like it. Except sometimes he doesn’t know exactly how fitting this is for Kugayama, who passes through life with little hardship, less effort. It’s a struggle, sometimes, when they never stand on equal ground, but Kugayama is probably kinder than he is, more prone to fits of feeling for Tanabe, unafraid that Tanabe can swallow his trust whole and tear it apart.

Tanabe’s hands shake; he lets the mug rest on the table, and the base of it leaves a wet circle on the wood. Kugayama looks up from his print outs and his spread sheets. He reaches forward to take Tanabe’s hand in his.

“Your hand,” says Kugayama, pressing a kiss to the skin of his wrist, “it’s warm.”

 

 

 


End file.
